


Speechless

by lasergirl



Category: King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Childhood, Incest, M/M, Non Consensual, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David and Bertie's relationship as children sets the parameters for their roles as adults, much to Bertie's frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the nursery, David is the brave sea-captain taking prisoners on the high seas. His sails are the linens from his bed strung up to bedposts and the brig is the cramped space below the mattress, under the bed where it's always dark and haunted.

"Are you ready to confess to treason, Midshipman?" Captain David wields a cutlass in one hand, and with the other draws back the coverlet to confront his prisoner.

"D-D-D-avid, this isn't f-f-funny anymore," says Bertie pleadingly, holding his hands under his chin and lies on his belly in the "brig." His wrists are tied expertly with a pair of handkerchiefs.

"Midshipman B-B-Bertie, you are hereby charged with attempt to tuminy and conspiracy to murder the ship's Captain. How do you plead?"

Bertie chokes on his words. "N-Nuh-K-K-..."

David cackles. "Guilty! You are sentences to hang!" And with glee he hauls poor Bertie out from under the bed in spite of his frustrated sputters and tears to act out the rest of his fantasy.


	2. Balmoral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inserted moment during the party at Balmoral. Bertie tries to corner David for a chat, David has other ideas. Non-con, power play, incest.

And it's those moments, strangely, that rise unbidden to Bertie's mind now while he quarrels with his brother.

The words are there, tantalizing: he can taste them on his tongue, bitter in the back of his throat. But there's a wall built from years of repression and there they hit the words shatter apart into choking consonants that fill his mouth with fragments.

David pushes past the footmen into the cellar, Bertie trailing in his wake. Around them, the help deflect their gaze and bow (or curtsy) and part before them like fingerlings before sharks. Bertie takes a deep breath, feels his lungs expand. He can do this.

"I've been t-trying so see you," he manages, as he follows David through the labyrinthine twists and turns of the belowstairs corridors. His brother doesn't even give him a look, unaware at the effort it's taken to get this far.

"I've been terribly busy, you know, with Wally and everything," David mutters as he hunts through the neatly-ordered rows of bottle-ends in their racks. "You go and play with your little doctor in London and leave me to the business of Kinging."

"K-k- you call this 'Kinging'?" Bertie pushes out. "Laying off eighty staff to buy p-pearls for that w-w-Woman?"

"She likes the very best." David flicks an impeccable eyebrow at his brother and gives him a wink. "And so do I. You know, there are things she does like no other! I suppose you wouldn't know, your Elizabeth is so dreary… Now, where's the bloody '23?"

"Now see here!" Bertie explodes, his voice echoes in the hallway and he's actually quite proud of himself for a moment, until David cackles with arch laughter and ducks down for a bottle of champagne.

"Oh, you have your little Duchess, Bertie, let me have my Queen."

"Q-q—" The enormity of the statement sticks in Bertie's throat, far worse than anything else. David smirks at him, satisfied with the reaction.

"What's that, B-b-b-Bertie? Cat got your tongue?" And then David slams the heavy oaken door and pushes Bertie against the wall. One fist is pressing against him clutching the neck of the bloody '23 and his other hand slides to Bertie's groin and grabs. Bertie squeaks in protest but that's as far as he gets.

Bertie feels his cheeks go hot and his tongue sticks and his jaw locks closed. David's close, too close, smelling of too much champagne and Mrs. Simpson's perfume. Bertie turns his head.

David's hand on his balls, just a fraction too tight, painful so that Bertie has to follow his movements, and step forward, down, then David's hands along his neck and shoulders, pushing him to his knees.

"That's right, Bertie" he whispers, silk smooth and damnably charming, "Kneel before your King." The fingers on his neck position him just so, there is a rustle of woolen cloth and David unbuttons his flies.

The stone floor is cold under Bertie's bare knees, and gritty; he can feel every granule of dirt and sharp twitches of pain where the flags don't quite fit together. He thinks of the party going on upstairs, all of the footsteps he can hear through the wooden beams above his head. He thinks of Elizabeth and if she missed his abrupt departure.

It's just like when they were younger. David's clever fingers slip nimbly past Bertie's lips, bearing the faintest trace of salt. Once, Bertie tried to deny his brother and was left with bruises on his inner thighs that didn't fade for weeks. He knows better than to fight with his King, not when there are so many guests. Ashamed, he opens his mouth.  
"Mmm, and how has your pet doctor been improving your jaw muscles?" David's voice is husky, needy. "Your jumped-up colonial learn any tricks from the criminal classes?"

In spite of himself, Bertie vocalizes a strangled negative.

"Ah, yes, that's the ticket," David stands above him, wielding his stiffening cock like the child's cutlass from his boyhood.

Bertie's hands may as well be tied. He takes what David gives him, opens his painfully-tense jaw and relaxes his throat. If he could speak around the mouthful, the vowel would be a deep resounding "aahhh."

But it isn't, because David's got one hand on the back of his head, and his royal member at attention and any sounds that Bertie makes are quickly choked away. He finds a rhythm in his breath, imagines Logue's vocal exercises. This could easily be another, just as peculiar, just as outrageous as singing vowels to the practicioners of Harley Street.

For a moment, David loses his golden voice, teetering on the edge with animalistic grunts and then he's done, spilling into Bertie's mouth, filling him with spent seed.

"I will marry her, you know," says David briskly, buttoning himself away as Bertie spits into a corner. "I'm King. I have rights. And anyway, she loves me."

Bertie's arguments spring fully formed into his mouth, but there they stay. The Church will not recognize a divorced person as a royal consort! It's outrageous, and how dare David even suggest such a thing.

David yanks the heavy door wide open again and hefts the bottle of champagne in his hand.

"Do let me know if you have any other concerns, will you, B-b-b-bertie? I do so love our little chats." And then David's gone, calling out to the footmen in the cellar to bring this and that, barking orders and climbing the stairs, once more England's King.


End file.
